


The Myriad Adventures of Sarah Trevelyan, Ace Inquisitor

by Orchidellia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cousin Dorian Pavus, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hiding in Plain Sight, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Varric Tethras, Teasing, Varric Tethras Writes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidellia/pseuds/Orchidellia
Summary: This was borne of one of those 30-day RP Challenges (and is now 3 years in the making because what even are directions?). There is no linear story of Sarah Trevelyan, mage of Starkhaven and Ostwick, who can swing around a rather large sword and internally screams at every decision she has to make. Maybe she's a sheltered shit-show. Maybe she has a thing for apostates named [REDACTED]. Maybe the author is bad at individual character voices. Maybe there are too many maybes.CW: She did not have a good life in Starkhaven. There is abuse and rape. I'll denote the chapter titles with sensitive content with asterisks and leave a note at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Parents are sometimes the worst

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Describe your character's relationship with her parents. (Yikes.)

Sarah Trevelyan sat behind a wall of barrels on the top floor of the pub, effectively blocked from the Inquisition’s view.  Cole agreed to leave her alone to her wallowing and not tell anyone where she was. Sometimes she didn't want to be the Inquisitor – fuck, most of the time she didn't want to be the Inquisitor.  The barrels hid her pouting and allowed her to just be Sarah for a few hours.

 

She shook, trembled really, and couldn't tell if it was from the cold draft rushing through the cracks in the wall or her trepidation from the letter she currently held in her hands.  It was from her parents – a real, honest to Maker letter that they took the time to pen specifically for her. She traced the angled and flowing script that belonged to her mother, Astrid.  Well, Lady Trevelyan, not Astrid or mother, since she wasn't allowed to refer to her parents by name. What did it say? Did her father, the honorable Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, include a missive?

 

Flipping over the parchment revealed her family crest – a beautiful Marcher stallion surrounded by a Chantry sunburst – pressed into blood red wax.  The paper crinkled in her stiff fingers as she tried to clumsily break the seal. Giving up, she called up her magic and blew some heat into her hands until they moved freely, and with a twitch, she conjured a tiny, weak heating rune usually reserved for cooking onto the floor next to her.  The heat felt fantastic.

 

Her hands still shook, but not like they did.  Maybe her nerves really were just a reaction to the cold and nothing else.  And her rapidly beating heart was just an arrhythmia, definitely not fear. Did she eat today?  Maybe that's why her hands shook like leaves in a windstorm and her stomach was tied in knots.

 

The seal broke with a snap, like the sound of a boot on a dried twig.  Three sheaves of parchment were folded into the envelope: the longest was penned by her mother, the shortest by her father, and a little over half a page from her great–aunt Lucille.

 

Her father wrote, "Felicitations on your survival and your new station.  Sincerely, Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick." _Wow, thanks, Father._  If there was a form letter for surviving a conclave and becoming the religious icon of a movement, he would have used that instead.  Before she grew into her magic, her father doted on her like she was a princess. Sarah could do no wrong. Being the youngest of four made her the baby, the cutest, but that didn't last.

 

 _"Get that disgusting creature out of here, Sylvan!  Hand it over to the Templars for disposal. There is no room in the family, this noble house of Trevelyan, for an abomination."_  Sarah was seven.  She wasn't so young that she didn't understand what he said, but wasn't old enough to know that she was leaving forever.  From then on, she was all but stricken from the official family record. The only contact she had was with her brother, Westin, and her great aunt Lucille.

 

"I don't really want to read these," she whispered sadly.  Her family claimed ties to the Inquisition to bolster their standing with the other nobles in the Free Marches, even if they barely said two words to her since she was a child.  No one really cared about her. She was the embarrassment in the family.

 

"Then don't read them."  She looked up to find Dorian leaning over one of the smaller barrels.  "Brilliant hiding spot. It's cozy – maybe somewhat... rustic." Rustic was said with the same tone one used to describe the smell of Denerim.

 

"Did my keepers send you to find me?"

 

"They're mad with worry, Sarah."

 

"But I can lead the Inquisition from here."  She pulled at her cloak, trying to bury herself further in its folds and furs and appear smaller.

 

"How would you do that?" he asked, tilting his head.  "Would you have a flock of ravens like Leliana and a fleet of runners?"

 

"Blood magic," she answered dryly.

 

He blanched and gripped his sleeved arm, but tried to chuckle, to draw attention away from his shock at her easy suggestion.  "Don't even joke about that, sweetheart. It's not worth it." Leaning over further, he plucked the letters from her hand. "Oh, a missive from Bann and Lady Trevelyan.  How utterly unfortunate – they throw the most boring parties. Does anyone here know we're cousins?"

 

"Third cousins.  That hardly makes a relative."

 

"Still family."  He pocketed the letters.  "When you feel stronger, more secure, come find me and we'll read the rest together."

 

Sarah regarded him skeptically.  "Why are you being so nice to me?  There isn't even a hint of teasing."

 

"Because maybe I know how you feel and you're my only family, too."  He helped her stand and she dissipated her heating rune with a wave of her hand.  "Now, shall we go find your boyfriend and show him that you haven't succumbed to a demon or blood magic?"

 

"He's not my boyfriend!" she snapped.   _And he's a Templar.  It would never work._

 

"Yet.  Not your boyfriend yet."

 

“Never.”

 

Dorian patted her arm and led her out the door, through a ruined bunkhouse, and to the battlements.  "Never say never! Just imagine what you would have missed if you said no to the Conclave. We never would have met, and then you wouldn't be as well dressed as you are at this very moment."

 

Sarah snorted and leaned into his bare shoulder.  "It's always about you in the end."

 

"Of course!"


	2. "Your description of me is terrible."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is bad at describing female protagonists, and the Inquisitor isn't much better (especially when the protagonist is herself).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: What are your character's most prominent physical features?

Varric nursed his pint of ale as he watched the Inquisitor.  She was doing that thing again – the one where she tugged on a small chunk of straw–blonde hair from her temple and chewed on it.  How was he supposed to write a historical, nay, heroic tale of the Inquisition without a heroic Herald?

 

Hawke wasn't even this difficult.  She loved the stories of how she tamed a dragon, slew ten templars bare–handed, and fought the Arishok with just her fists.  She was made for heroics. Sarah Trevelyan, he thought, was the least heroic human he ever met, including Bran Cavin.

 

Very few stories of the Inquisitor currently circulating Thedas had a description of her.  She was a mage – a good mage that swung a fucking great sword that would give Broody pause – and she was female, obviously.  None commented on her hair that glittered gold in the sunlight, or her cheeks that spoke of peaches and cream. Because of course not, those stories were boring and only for people that liked Swords and Shields.

 

More interesting whispers commented on her attire.  Robes or armor covered every inch of skin. No one ever saw as much as a wrist.  Josephine and Leliana knew why and refused to elaborate. Even the Inquisitor's healer from back in Haven (who unfortunately perished in one of the many Maker–forsaken fires from that archdemon) claimed it was nothing.  Sometimes, the girl that smelled of sunshine and lightning was as broody and thorny as Broody.

 

Varric heard whispers about the Starkhaven Circle, mainly from Anders back in Kirkwall, and also about Ostwick.  Could she have been... it was possible. Anything was possible when one set of humans was given complete control over another.

 

"Copper for your thoughts?"

 

Varric looked up and smiled as Sarah joined him at the table.  "Writing descriptions for my new bestseller – Tales of the Herald."

 

"Title needs work."

 

"Everyone's a critic."  She pulled the sheaf of parchment towards herself before Varric could stop her.  After a silent minute of reading where he was positive she would electrocute him within an inch of death, she cracked a smile.

 

"Your description of me is terrible."

 

"How would you improve it?"

 

"I'm not thin, more... plushy.  And I have bluey–grey eyes, not 'eyes as tumultuous as a stormy sea'.

 

"Hey, I'm elaborating."

 

She made a sudden movement for her sleeves and he drew back on instinct, afraid she'd stab him.  But, all she did was unbutton the wrists and fold back the robes, presenting both forearms. "Before I was sent to the Circle, I caused an inferno and a lightning storm in quick succession at our family's summer home.  Burned down an out building, killed one of the servants." Her voice remained calm and even. He looked closely at her arms and his lips tightened in anger. Silver scars wound around her arms in erratic patterns, and two cuff marks stood out on her wrists.

 

"I was badly burned and electrocuted – because I had no idea how I caused the fire and lightning, so had no way to protect myself.  My father didn't deem it important to send for a healer since I no longer would produce viable heirs for the family. My nanny gave me a few poultices, and then the Templars who took me to Starkhaven applied a few more.  But it was too late to save my skin, so I cover it up."

 

"Maker..." he breathed.  "That's one hell of a story.  Have any others?"

 

"Consider it a freebee for a friend," she said, then stood and stretched.  "Have a pleasant evening, Varric."

 

"You too, Herald."

 

He inked up his pen and wrote –

 

_ The knight–enchanter stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Waking Sea.  Her eyes reflected the stormy surf and blonde hair whipped around her head like a halo of heavenly light.  Snaking down her forearms were the remnants of battles past – scars that shone in the afternoon sun with pale, pearlescent glow.  She hefted her great sword over her shoulder with a grunt, then turned to look over her shoulder at her followers. _

 

_ The corner of her mouth turned down with her crooked grin.  "Shall we?" she asked. _

 

It'll do, he thought, and continued to write.


End file.
